Sins of the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  The Colonel walked deeper into the narrowing tunnel, his head almost brushing the ceiling. “I like a man who doesn’t take things as they are. Speaks well of you.”

  Moseby joined the Colonel. “The reason Jefferson was interested in the main shaft was because there’s a lot of calcite present, which attracts moisture, and the slope is right to collect it at the bottom somewhere. Like the lake you’re interested in. When the main shaft ended in a dead end, Jefferson went on to other tunnels, but this little feeder line has also got the same factors. No reason it might not have a lake down there.”

  The Colonel shivered. “It’s cold down here.” He rubbed his hands together. “Some of the other shafts are hot enough to bake bread in.”

  “Don’t get any ideas,” said Baby, taking the Colonel’s arm. “I can’t cook worth a lick. The Colonel’s always riding me about his first wife’s cooking.”

  The Colonel leaned close to one of the walls, rubbed his finger over a section and examined it. “What are these sparkly mineral deposits?”

  “Schist. It’s sparkles because of all the mica in it,” said Moseby. “Might be one reason the seam was never fully mined. Schist fractures easily. Causes real problems.”

  The Colonel rubbed his finger against the wall again. “My information about the lake is sketchy, but there was mention of the passageway down being marked by stars. It was passed off as delusional, but seeing this schist makes me wonder.”

  “You should have told me earlier,” said Moseby.

  “You seem to be doing just fine,” bristled the Colonel, “and I wasn’t sure how reliable the information was. Everything I know I got third- or fourth-hand.”

  “Colonel, sir?” called one of his adjutants. “Are we almost done here?”

  “Why don’t you go back into the main shaft,” said the Colonel. He turned to Moseby. “My men hate it down here. Can’t say I blame them. We’re soldiers, not moles.”

  “That’s a rude thing to say to Mr. Moseby,” said Baby, tickling him. “If he’s a mole, he’s a darn cute one.”

  “Mr. Moseby knows I hold him in the highest regard, Baby, it’s just the men and I prefer open sky…” The Colonel stopped as the adjutants squeezed back into the main tunnel, taking one of the floor lights with them. The tunnel seemed suddenly smaller, the air thinner. The only way to work this far underground was to keep your mind focused on the task at hand, just concentrate on breathing in and out. Once you let your attention slide, once you noticed how cramped it was, and started to imagine the sheer weight and volume of rock and dirt overhead, you were lost. A man’s screams echoing off the walls could start a panic, a blind rush to daylight trampling everyone in the way. “Open…open sky is preferable to this entryway to Hades.”

  Moseby could see the Colonel struggling to overcome his fear—it was one of the reasons he wanted to have this conversation here. He needed all the advantages he could get. The Colonel’s eagerness to go back outside might make him tell the truth. At least more than he intended. “It’s always difficult finding a specific object underwater, Colonel, but all you’ve told me is that there’s something lying at the bottom of an underground lake. Something you evidently want badly enough to commit hundreds of men and I don’t know how much money. So what am I looking for?”

  “As I’ve told you before, that information remains classified.”

  “Colonel, I at least need to know how big this thing is that you want me to find.” Moseby walked back to the rocky outcropping that partially blocked the entrance to the main tunnel. “This rock face has been here for thousands of years. Anything or anyone entering this feeder line had to make it past that narrow opening. So, Colonel, is this thing I’m looking for going to fit through?”

  Behind the Colonel, caught in the light, a single drop of moisture slid down the rock. “Yes…yes, I believe it would.”

  “Is it metallic or organic, because I’ve got some very sensitive detecting gear? Colonel?”

  The Colonel glanced at his wife. “Baby, are you cold? Shall we go?”

  “It’s all right,” said Baby. “I feel safe down here with you two big strong men.”

  The Colonel jerked as the floor light flickered, the battery running low. “I think we should leave.”

  Moseby nodded. “Colonel, I’ve come a long way on your say-so. I left my family with men I don’t know, men I don’t trust. I was supposed to be able to talk with my wife at least once or twice a week, but Gravenholtz keeps making excuses.”

  “You know we don’t have decent reception up here.”

  “Gravenholtz left special equipment behind at my house…a high-tech phone, supposed to be able to cut through the atmospheric problems. I was assured—”

  “There’s been a problem,” said the Colonel. “I’m sorry, John.”

  The silence in the tunnel was even more unsettling than the echo of their lowered voices.

  “I think you better tell me what the problem is, Colonel,” Moseby said softly.

  “You giving the orders now, son?” said the Colonel.

  Moseby hesitated. “No.”

  The Colonel pursed his lips. “One of Lester’s old comrades, man named Jeeter, was left in charge back at your house. Evidently this Jeeter deserted his post, taking the phone with him. It’s quite valuable—”

  “What happened to my family?”

  “I’m sure they’re quite all right—”

  “Colonel, right now I don’t give a good goddamn if you’re sure or not. I want to see my family. I want to be on that chopper in twenty minutes.”

  “You think you give the orders here, Mr. Moseby?” The Colonel’s face tightened, his jaw set. “Give me another order. Go on, Mr. Moseby, please…tell me what to do.”

  They were inches apart, close enough that Moseby could smell the tobacco on the Colonel’s breath and the coffee he’d had an hour earlier. Close enough that Moseby could dash his brains out on the rock wall with one quick movement. That wouldn’t bring Moseby back to his family, though.

  “You two boys shouldn’t fight,” said Baby. “Colonel, you can’t blame John for worrying about his family, it’s the most natural thing in the world to do. And John, you should know that if it was in the Colonel’s power to let you visit your wife and daughter, he’d do it. Just that there’s been too many helicopter trips off this mountain. People in flyover country are starting to wonder what’s going on here, and right now we don’t need the attention. So just as soon as we can, you’re going to be sent right back with your kin. And with your pockets full of money to boot. Isn’t that better than standing here mad at each other?”

  Moseby and the Colonel stayed squared off.

  “I want your word,” said Moseby.

  The Colonel stuck his hand out, and they shook. “And I want your best efforts, John.” He glanced back into the tunnel. “Are we done here? Because I’ve seen enough of this place to last me a good long while.”

  “There’s a few scrape marks on the floor further on that are rather interesting,” said Moseby. “Nothing certain, but—”

  “Do what you need to do,” said the Colonel. “Baby? Shall we?”

  “If you want me to proceed, Colonel, I’m going to need additional help,” said Moseby. “There’s been a cave-in further down the tunnel. I don’t think it was deliberate. No trace of explosives being used. More an aspect of the calcium carbonate that permeates the rock, makes it brittle—”

  “Yes, yes,” said the Colonel. “Get to the point.”

  “I need a crew of men to clear the shaft, but it’s going to be hard and dangerous,” said Moseby. “Round-the-clock work, because we have to chip away the collapsed section into small enough pieces—”

  “Anything you need. Just make it happen.”

  The floor light flickered again.

  “I want to select the best men from the other crews working the site,” said Moseby. “I already know who I want. The other bosses are going to be pissed off at me grabbing their best—”


  “Just do it.” The Colonel’s voice echoed. “Any problems from the bosses, you tell them to take it up with me.”

  “I’m going to start bunking with the miners, Colonel. Just so you know. You can reassign my bodyguards, I won’t need them.”

  “There a problem?”

  “Just trying to make things run smoother.”

  “Fine. No more bodyguards. Just let me know where your tent is.”

  “Colonel…one more thing. I can appreciate your desire to maintain security, but you’re hampering my ability to find whatever it is you’re looking for by not telling me the specifics. What’s the weight? The size? One container or more? Does it have a magnetic or a radioactive signature?”

  “Why do you ask about a radioactive signature?” the Colonel said quietly.

  “Because, Colonel…” Moseby made sure there was just the three of them in the tunnel. “There’s not a whole lot of things small enough to get through this tunnel, but worth enough to justify the scale of your dig. If it’s not Fort Knox gold, maybe it’s something from New York or Washington, D.C.”

  The Colonel’s shadow waved on the walls.

  “Tell him, Colonel,” said Baby. “One look at Mr. Moseby and you know he’s different from the others. He’s a finder. You can trust him.” She leaned her head on his shoulder, snuggled against him. “Shoot, you owe him the truth. He’s risking his life down here at the bottom of the earth.”

  The Colonel nodded, beckoned Moseby closer. “Somewhere down here, Mr. Moseby, hidden safely away…is the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States, the most sacred documents of the former regime. I intend for us to find them, Mr. Moseby, whatever the cost.”

  Chapter 27

  The monorail into downtown Atlanta put even the grand transit system of Seattle to shame. Seattle’s elevated train was clean, smooth, and free of graffiti, but even the second-class cars of the new Atlanta monorail had plush seats, soft music, and the scent of magnolias piped in. No telling what first-class amenities were. Rakkim would have liked to find out but Idents weren’t allowed in first class. He enjoyed the last of the sun warming the glass of the train.

  The outskirts of the Belt capital were the usual shabby apartments and run-down homes with brown lawns, but the people getting on to ride into the city were well dressed, the women in short, frilly skirts and purple anteater-skin boots, the men in suits with high collars and tight pants. They weren’t heading into the capital for a night on the town, they were the working poor looking their best for their service jobs taking care of the capital’s overclass—making drinks, driving town cars, or serving tiger prawn satay or veal tartare to the sleek civil servants, tech workers, and international-business desk jockeys that were the hot blood of Atlanta.

  Rakkim had bought himself and Leo new clothes, spending more than he anticipated on his credit chip, but even so, he felt underdressed. From the glances of the other riders, it was a majority opinion. Even the Idents were fashionable.

  “I’m scared,” whispered Leo.

  “It’s okay,” said Rakkim.

  “I checked the security phone for bugs,” said Leo. “I thought I found them all, but I was wrong.”

  Rakkim stared at his hands. He had a small blister on each of his thumbs from digging graves for the Tigard family.

  “I was wrong,” said Leo. “I’m never wrong about things like that.” Leo’s knees bounced rapidly up and down. “What happens when we get to the mountain? Maybe…maybe I’m not as smart as I think I am.”

  “Little late in the game for humility, Leo. I liked you better when you were working out the value of pi to a hundred places while pounding it to Leanne.”

  “Me too.” Leo caught himself. “I don’t like that phrase, ‘pounding it,’ in reference to Leanne.”

  Through the scenic glass Rakkim could see that new skyscrapers had been built since his last visit. A couple of them had to be 250 or 300 stories at least, all titanium and glass, squatty at the base and tapering to fine points. South American money, for the most part, the Brazilian and Columbian conglomerates staking their claim, buying prime real estate in the capital. There were office buildings in Dubai and Singapore over four hundred stories tall, buildings that issued separate weather reports depending on your floor, but these new ones in Atlanta were impressive nonetheless. Nice to see a skyline without antiterror blimps hovering overhead or antiaircraft batteries on the rooftops—for all its flaws the Belt didn’t attract the hostility that the Islamic Republic did; its enemies preferred economic pressure and constant territorial encroachment rather than direct attacks.

  A young blond Ident across the aisle batted her eyes at Leo—her lids, crusted with glitter stones, flashed rainbows. “Y’all just getting into town?”

  Leo nodded.

  “He’s allowed to talk, isn’t he?” The Ident smiled at Rakkim, her grill-work crusted with glitter stones too. She offered her hand to Leo, reaching across Rakkim. “I’m Amanda.”

  “Leo.”

  “Leo the lion.” She winked at him. “Bet you know how to growl too, don’t you?”

  Leo looked away.

  The monorail raced on, a light electrical hum the loudest sound in the compartment. Leo had phoned ahead after they left the Tigards’ farm. Told his contact what had happened, and what Rakkim wanted. Calls within the Belt were generally safe, but the conversation had been in code anyway. Someone overhearing it would have thought it was just casual talk, except for when the man at the other end had said, Your brother is getting a job offer from Switzerland? You’re absolutely certain of that? The slight change in his tone was a lapse in security, but Rakkim was probably just annoyed for having to use Leo’s Atlanta connection.

  A few stops later, the trains slowed. Amanda leaned toward Leo. “This is your stop.”

  Rakkim followed them down the ramp to the street, part of the throng of reverse commuters. At the bottom of the ramp, Amanda kissed Leo on the right cheek, left a lip print, and pointed toward a small cart selling soda. The man selling soda handed Rakkim a couple of RC Colas, whispered an address. Ten minutes’ walk later, an Ident led them to the service entrance of one of the largest buildings in the city, Freedom Towers.

  Another Ident led them into a private elevator, thumb-coded the control panel. Leo put one hand on the wall, breathing rapidly as the car rose. The doors slid open at the penthouse on the 111th floor. The Ident stepped out, waited for them to exit, and then stepped back inside.

  “Good talking with you,” said Rakkim.

  The Ident didn’t change expression.

  “There you are, dear hearts,” said Getty Andalou, fluttering over in a wave of ruffles and silk. The son of the Senate majority leader, he was well over six feet tall, late thirties, slender as a stick, his perfumed hair falling around his shoulders—a real dandy, elegant in cranberry tights and a loose white silk blouse with ruffled sleeves and collar. All he needed was a sword and a floppy hat with a feather in it. He stood with one hip cocked, hands on his hips. “You must be Leo. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Leo shifted from one foot to another. “Okay.”

  “The infamous Rikki.” Andalou gave a slight bow. “I’m glad to see you’re taking such good care of the lad.”

  Rakkim curtseyed.

  Andalou chuckled. “Ah yes…Spider said you were droll.” He waved at the expansive living room. “Please, come in. I’ve had food prepared…” His nose wrinkled. “Perhaps you’d prefer to bathe first.” He lightly clapped his hands and another Ident appeared. “Please escort our guests to their bedrooms.” He looked at Rakkim. “I’ve taken the liberty of having clothes laid out for you.”

  “I’m allergic to ruffles and bows,” said Rakkim.

  “I’m sure you are.” Andalou’s teeth were perfectly even and white. “I take a certain pride in anticipating the tastes of my guests…although in your case I had some assistance.”

  Rakkim followed the Ident down the hall, Leo
tagging along after. The Ident opened a door, bowed, and Leo walked inside. Another door opened, and Rakkim thanked him. He tried the door after it closed behind the Ident. It opened easily. He assumed there were cameras. He checked out the spacious room, its high ceilings and buffed hickory flooring.

  Situated at the corner of the penthouse, the panoramic windows afforded a view of the Congressional Building and the Lincoln Monument. Down the street was Traitors Square, whose embossed floor tiles noted the names of journalists and politicians who had covertly accepted Saudi oil money. A trip to the capital wasn’t complete until tourists had tromped all over those names. The Putin Building, the tallest skyscraper in Atlanta, cast a shadow across the city. Three hundred ten stories, according to what he had overheard on the monorail. High enough to make the point, but not too high; at 555 stories, the Rio Spire had been the tallest structure in the world—a ten-thousand-mile view, bragged the publicists—until it fell over one bright sunny day without a cloud in the sky or a seismic shift underfoot. Just toppled over into the Atlantic like a drunk on the white-sand beach. Too big to remove, the wreckage, and the twenty thousand dead under it, had become a major tourist attraction.

  Rakkim touched a window, noted the anti-eavesdropping filaments in the armored glass. Nice touch. Some folks would feel safe. The bathroom was bigger than most apartments in the Belt or the Islamic Republic, all pink marble and granite, one entire wall a mirror. Probably two-way glass. He took off his clothes, kicked them into a corner, and walked into the bathroom.

  The ultrasonic shower first sprayed a mist of scented water, then the ultrasonics kicked in, a barely audible hum that set the water beads vibrating on his skin, tingling him clean. He stayed there for three cycles, enjoying the sensation, then slathered barber cream on his face, his beard dissolving in the mist. His clothes were gone when he got out, replaced by blue breeches and a soft buckskin shirt. He had seen similar outfits on the monorail—a fine outfit, but not so fine as to draw attention. When he walked out of the bedroom, Leo and Andalou were already waiting for him in the living room.